


The Art of War

by Hijja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijja/pseuds/Hijja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wizard's chess in the Slytherin dungeons. Ron and Draco, both with an axe to grind. High stakes, dubious rules and psychological warfare. Painful consequences and strange encounters. If you've ever wondered whether it is a good idea to play games with Slytherins, this is the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of War

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the last game between Kethas epetai-Khemara and Vrenn Rustazh in John M. Ford's brilliant novel _The Final Reflection_ , the one Star Trek novel that deserves to be remembered as a standalone work of art. Many thanks to the two miracle workers (otherwise known as Betas) Caledonia Jameson and Karen, without whom this would have ended up in the bin.

Emotions were still running high when Hogwarts' students poured into the Great Hall for the evening banquet after one of the most violent Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch matches ever. 

Ron Weasley was shaking with fury as he watched the Slytherin team troop in, their infernal trio at the forefront. Between themselves, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had nearly killed Harry in today's match. As newly appointed Beaters, Malfoy's goons had hounded the Gryffindor Seeker over the pitch without respite, and Harry had evaded serious injury only because their clumsiness on broomsticks made up for their ability to hit the Bludgers like rocks. It had been Malfoy, however, who had executed a narrow pirouette a second before Harry's hand could wrap around the Snitch, and had hit him in the face with the tail twigs of his Nimbus. The impact had sent Harry reeling backwards, almost flying off his Firebolt. Even now, the memory of his best friend swerving on his broom, arms flailing and blood streaming down his cheek, sent icicles down his spine. 

The first time in their Hogwarts career that Malfoy had got the Snitch, and he'd been so intent on doing damage that he cared preciously little about the fact that the Snakes would lose 210 to 230 because of his little stunt. Slytherin's captain Adrian Pucey had thrown a fit right on the pitch which perhaps accounted for the thunder-and-rainstorm look on Malfoy's face. It was nothing, though, to what Ron was feeling. The twisted bastard had almost _killed_ his best friend!

He couldn't stop himself when Malfoy passed him by on the way to his table. Hermione, sitting very close with a worried frown on her face ever since Madam Pomfrey had shooed them out of the Hospital Wing, raised her hand as if to stop him, but let it fall again.

Ron grabbed the Slytherin Seeker's robe and jerked him around roughly.

"What were you thinking back there, you murderous bastard?" he hissed. "Harry could have _died >_!"

"If Gryffindor's Wonder can't play the game, he should stay on the ground," Malfoy snarled, hair still damp and clinging to his head, slightly less cool and composed than usual.

"He can play a lot better than you, he beat you in every game so far," Ron shot back. "Even today, when you trampled on every rule in the book, we won!"

"No," the blond retorted, finding back to his trademark drawl. " _You_ certainly didn't win, Weasley. Seems you haven't made the team again - what, the fourth time in a row? But at least now you can play hero on a white steed for the wounded beauty." He gave Ron a sneer that practically dripped with contempt. "That's probably going to be your greater destiny in life - taking the Avada Kedavra for Potter when he's once again trying in vain to stand up to the Dark Lord. Like Diggory."

Ron growled and tensed his grip. He leaned closer to the spiteful visage. 

"Has your Death Eater father ordered you to finish where he failed?" 

He realised immediately that it hadn't been the most prudent thing to say. A flicker ran through the hateful grey eyes, like a sliver of lightning through a sea of storm clouds. Malfoy's voice sunk down to a whisper, his lips almost touching Ron's ear.

"Potter deserves far worse than death for spreading disgusting rumours about my father through the Ministry. And so do you." 

Ice dripped down Ron's spine and melted into his blood as the meaning of the words sunk in. Hermione hitched her breath in horror and slid her hand over his in an unconscious protective gesture. Then the shock turned to burning anger bubbling forward, and the fury in Ron's eyes forced his opponent a step back. 

"You incredible, nasty..." 

Incoherent rage stifled his voice in his throat. He closed his hands to fists and bodily threw himself on Malfoy despite the tightly packed group of Slytherins who surrounded him. Ron didn't notice the stern voice behind him as he swung to punch Malfoy's lights out. He only realised Professor McGonagall was standing right next to him when she actually grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the sneering blond.

"Mr Weasley!" The professor's voice was shriller than usual, and her glasses seemed to focus her furious stare into something fierce enough to petrify. "I understand your concern for Mr. Potter's welfare and agree that some members of the Slytherin team--" The petrification glare swerved over Malfoy and his cronies, who still stood like a human block in front of the Gryffindor table, "--have disgraced themselves at today's match. But I will _not_ tolerate brawling in the Great Hall. Ten points from Gryffindor and Slytherin." 

Ron took a few deep breaths to dispel the red haze before his eyes. Malfoy scowled furiously at the professor and swept off toward his table without another word. 

Ron glanced awkwardly at Hermione, ready for another stern reproach, but she only squeezed his fingers understandingly. It was very unlike her not to tell him off for losing his temper, but obviously Malfoy's remark had shaken her as much as him. 

It was not that Ron couldn't handle a state of open warfare between himself and ferret-boy, but he worried about Harry. His best friend had returned to Hogwarts withdrawn and distracted. They hadn't had time to talk much about the events of the Triwizard Tournament, since Dumbledore had insisted Harry stay with his family in Little Whinging, where he was safe. Ron had missed his presence at the Burrow, and Harry's demeanour suggested that he'd spent the holidays endlessly agonising over Cedric Diggory's death and his role in You-Know-Who's rebirth. The very last thing Harry needed in his vulnerable state was Malfoy trying to make every accident and injury in the books happen to him. 

"Hey, Ron! Your roast beef is well dead already." 

Ron glanced up at Seamus Finnegan distractedly. The Irish Gryffindor stared pointedly at his plate, where Ron had stabbed his fork into his dinner repeatedly without noticing it, or actually eating. He gave Seamus a sheepish smile and pulled the fork out of the meat. 

In the end, he didn't manage to force down more than a few bites, which tasted like gravel and sat in his stomach like bricks. Several times his eyes flickered to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was eating seemingly unconcerned, a look of quiet concentration on his face. He looked as if he was plotting something. Then again, he did most of the time.

Next to him, Hermione listlessly shoved some peas around in her mashed potatoes. Finally she tugged the sleeve of his robe and whispered, "Come on, let's go to the Hospital Wing and check on Harry."

Ron was pretty certain that Madam Pomfrey would be less than thrilled to see them again so soon, but rose without protest. He had rarely seen Hermione as frightened as when she watched Harry plunge towards the ground on his out-of-control broom. He would probably have blue marks on his arm for a week from where she had gripped him... 

It wasn't so much the accident itself, he understood. But they had come so close to losing Harry in the Tournament that it was a cruel reminder of what could have happened if worse had come to worst. Hermione and Harry had grown closer over the past year, Ron reflected with no little self-contempt. Hermione had supported Harry when he, his supposed best friend, had lounged in the grip of the old, familiar twin devils pride and jealousy. She had been there. He hadn't. It was that simple. 

 

They rose and made their way to the exit, but were suddenly stopped by a cold, hatefully familiar voice.

"Weasley!" 

Ron turned on the spot and found himself facing Malfoy, again. He was leaning against the end of the Slytherin table and regarding him condescendingly. When he was sure he had Rons's attention, not to mention that of most of the hall, he continued.

"You have insulted my family, my father, and myself, Weasley," Malfoy accused. "And I want satisfaction."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Ron saw Professor McGonagall rise from the staff table, lips pursed and face angry. Snape put a hand on her arm to hold her back. 

_Yes, you slimy git, go ahead and protect your favourite!_

He turned to Malfoy, ready to make a scathing reply, but the blond was already continuing.

"Well, I thought about challenging you to a Quidditch game, but you're obviously not a Krum on a broom. A wizard duel is out too. For one, our esteemed teachers wouldn't approve--" He curled his lip in the direction of the staff table. Most of the staff watched the exchange with as much interest as the students. McGonagall's brows were knitted. Snape looked as if he was smiling. It was a hideous sight!

"--and judging from your grades you're not that good with curses, so it would hardly be a fair fight."

"You bloody-" Ron sputtered in indignation. Hermione tugged the sleeve of his robes warningly. He took a deep breath and glared at ferret-boy. Defence Against the Dark Arts was his best class, and with all the spells he'd learned last year to help prepare Harry for the Third Task, he could give Malfoy a run for his money, no pun intended. 

"Just because I haven't been trained in the Dark Arts ever since I crawled out of the cradle doesn't mean I can't duel, Malfoy," he shot back sharply. 

The other only smiled infuriatingly.

"Still, it would violate school rules, and as a Prefect I couldn't condone it," he objected primly. "But," a dramatic pause, "I've heard you're not too bad at wizard chess, Weasley. So I propose a challenge. We play, and if I win, you'll apologise for insulting my father. And if you win, I'll apologise for being harder on Potter in today's game than he could handle." 

Torn between telling Malfoy in no uncertain terms to eff off and die and jumping at the once-in-a-lifetime chance to trounce the evil prat at his favourite game, Ron bit his lip. Desire for revenge won out, easily. He nodded, eyes glittering.

"All right, Malfoy. When?"

"Meet me in two hours, Slytherin Common Room." He held up a pale hand as Ron was about to protest. "That's not negotiable, Weasley. I want to defeat you with my own set, and it's an antique I'm not going to drag around the castle. You can bring a second if you're afraid to face me alone."

"As if," Ron spat. "Have it your way, then."

"Oh," Malfoy replied lazily, "I _very_ much intend to." He waved his two cronies to his side and strutted out of the hall.

_~ ~ ~_

"I don't like it," Hermione hissed in a hushed voice as they were waiting at the entrance to the Hospital Wing for Madam Pomfrey to relent and allow them in. "He's got to be up to something."

"You think I can't beat him?" Ron asked, slightly hurt, although at the same time a little worrying voice had begun to natter inside his own skull.

She threw him an exasperated side glance. 

"Don't be daft! Of course you can beat him - you're the best player in Gryffindor, probably of the whole school. I just can't see that arrogant little creep risking to lose to you, and remember what he said back in the hall! What if it's a trap to lure you down into the dungeons?"

Something inside Ron was blossoming at the vote of confidence and concern behind her fussy behaviour. 

"Well, he challenged me in public in the middle of the Great Hall, so he probably won't get away with murdering me, Hermione."

They were interrupted by Madam Pomfrey sticking her head out of the Hospital Wing door.

"Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, I have administered a Sleeping Draught to Mr Potter and he's resting. He'll be perfectly fine again in the morning. You may see him for a minute, but let me warn you: if he's disturbed, you'll assist Mr. Filch with his most unpleasant tasks for a _very_ long time." 

Silently, they crept after her to the bed Harry was sleeping on. Without his glasses, he looked very peaceful and very young, black hair even messier than usual. The scratches on his cheek had already faded to pale lines and would likely be gone in the morning. 

Most of all, however, Ron thought, he looked too much like last year, after his return from the Riddle graveyard - white, hurt and motionless. They had almost lost him then, and several times over the confounded Triwizard Tournament, and he, Ron, hadn't been there for him when he was needed most. The First Task had been among the worst days in Ron's entire life, almost as bad as when Ginny had disappeared into the Chamber of Secrets. He had been wracked with pain then, but at least not with guilt. But when he had seen Cedric Diggory walk out to face the Swedish Short Snout, he'd felt fear like never before. His best friend might die in a few short moments, and he'd die hating him! And it would be entirely his fault.

Ron never wanted to feel like that again, and he had the however irrational desire to put himself between Harry and whatever danger was lurking in his path like an invisible shield. 

"I promise I'll get Malfoy for this," Ron whispered, very quietly. Hermione sniffled and took Harry's hand. 

"May I sit with him for a while?" she begged the nurse. "I promise I won't wake him." Madam Pomfrey gave her an annoyed look, but then relented under the pleading brown eyes. 

"Well, you're a Prefect and a responsible young woman. Please make sure he gets all the rest he needs." She handed Hermione a vial. "That is more of the potion. Give it to him should he wake up." 

The nurse left, and for a long while they sat in silence beside Harry's bed. Finally, Ron whispered to Hermione, "I should go. It's almost time." 

She took him completely by surprise when she threw her arms around his neck and held him tightly for a second. 

"Be _careful_! The little ferret is capable of just about everything, as long as it's evil and twisted." 

Gingerly, he returned the embrace until she drew back, blushing and with a wry, self-conscious smile on her lips. 

"Good luck."

_~ ~ ~_

Slytherin territory after dark was even creepier than during the day, Ron realised as he walked Hogwarts' nether regions on his way to the enemy common room. The spooky green lamps didn't help. Despite Hermione's reassurances, his insecurity began to return. She had a point. Malfoy wouldn't challenge him unless he was pretty sure he'd win. What if he was really good? But then again, he was a superbly arrogant prick and would certainly have boasted about it before if he was. Bugger, why hadn't he paid more attention to the Slytherins?

The only one he'd ever played was Blaise Zabini, the Snakes' quiet, dark-haired shadow. He'd sat morosely in the Great Hall, after his fall-out with Harry last year, and watched Zabini destroy his year mate Vincent Crabbe in six moves, with a set of chessmen that were already hoarse from yelling at Crabbe after the first round. Shaking his head in despair, Zabini had watched Malfoy's goon lumber off before noticing Ron. He'd lifted a pawn invitingly, and they had played without exchanging a word. Ron had won, but Zabini had been pretty good. If Malfoy was on the same level he could win. If he was much better...

Ron was so busy worrying that he almost ran into the stone wall that hid the entrance of the Slytherin common room - at least if he remembered correctly. It had been three years since he'd last been down there, Poly-juiced into Crabbe of all people. Taking a deep breath, he raised his fist and knocked.

The stone portal opened, and Ron looked directly into Malfoy's pointed, unpleasant face. He was still in his school robes, but around his neck hung a small silver pendant with a rose and snake pattern.

"Just in time, Weasley. At least you seem to be able to afford a watch," he sneered. 

Ron sighed exaggeratedly. "You know, Malfoy, your obsession with money can get really boring. You should stick to the death threats, they are so much more exciting." 

For a second, the dark flash that had been sparked in the Great Hall was back. Unbridled hatred broke through the Slytherin's mocking facade, though it only registered in his eyes and only for a second. Malfoy kept the disconcerting, piercing look on him, very deliberate and calculating.

"Is that so?" He leaned closer, and Ron fought the urge to draw back. "How about we make our game a little more interesting, then?"

"What are you on about?"

"I propose an additional clause, Weasley. The winner gets a free shot at the loser. Nothing deadly and nothing that does lasting damage, but apart from that anything is fair game. What do you think?"

 _He's gone utterly, barking mad,_ Ron thought, even as delicious visions of seriously paying the Slytherin back for years of indignities flashed through his mind. He wanted to put the bastard down a notch or four, more than anything. A year ago he'd have jumped at the chance eagerly, but he had learned - the hard way - that gut reactions could lead to terrible consequences. 

"Why in Merlin's name would you want to do that, Malfoy? We both know you're unlikely to win. What are you up to?" He noticed his voice rising and controlled it with some effort. 

"Well, you started it, didn't you? If toying with danger excites you, I'm more than happy to oblige. As for me, I want revenge, of course. Even if that means upping the stakes a bit. And don't say that you're not itching to throw something nasty at me, like, say, the Cruciatus Curse?"

"You're absolutely mental, Malfoy," Ron exploded, eyes blazing. Anger shook him and he was hard-pressed not to punch the Slytherin where he stood. "You malicious little git! Do you really think you're worth going to Azkaban?" He threw up his hands in disgust. "Is that your clever plan? Provoking me into using an Unforgivable and then running off to Snapey or Daddy to get me expelled or worse?"

"Pipe down, will you?" Malfoy seemed supremely unimpressed by his outburst. "I don't want you expelled, I want to make you suffer. Besides, how bad can it be? Potter survived it, after all."

"Harry? You mean Harry..." Ron broke off as the implications started to sink in. Harry had never mentioned having had Crucio cast on him. If Malfoy knew, he must have got it from another source... "You mean your father told-"

"Don't go there, Weasley," Malfoy interrupted, very quietly. "Because if you do, I'll have to kill you, and then we couldn't play."

Ron met his eyes, very determinedly, and replied, as quietly, "I'll say it after I've won." 

Their eyes clashed like fencing blades for a long second.

"We have an agreement then?" 

Malfoy held out his hand, his whole posture conveying a challenge Ron wasn't able to refuse. He couldn't back down, not after having _that_ piece of information thrown in his face, not to the son of the monster who had calmly watched his best friend being tortured and walked away to tell stories about it.

"Yes," he replied curtly and took the offered hand. It was cool and dry, and he let go very quickly. Catching Malfoy's triumphant, vicious grin, he was suddenly acutely aware that he had to win now. Because if he lost, death would certainly be more merciful than Draco Malfoy.

 

Malfoy turned and walked towards his common room without another word, expecting the Gryffindor to follow. It looked exactly like the last time - rough stone walls enlivened by the occasional tapestry, a huge fireplace, several groups of chairs and tables, all lightened by a scattering of green-shaded lamps. It was rather empty, after curfew for the younger students. Still, Ron got a number of nasty looks, directed both at his Gryffindor scarf and his red Weasley hair, but at least nobody got the knives out. Malfoy steered towards a table in one of the remote corners. Next to it, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were sitting in green leather armchairs, talking quietly. 

"Sit." Malfoy pointed to one of the chairs at the small table, and disappeared out of one of the various exits to the common room, ostensibly leading to the dormitories. Ron sat gingerly. Pansy was glaring at him through her black bangs. Zabini's face was unreadable, as always. None of them spoke.

When Malfoy came back, he levitated a set of wizard chess. He set the board on the table, and Ron gasped in shock. It was, quite probably, the most beautiful piece of artwork he had ever seen. The board, like the pieces, was made from elegant, unobtrusive marble with spidery grey threads winding themselves through the black-and-white chequered fields to soften the harsh colour contrast. Imprinted in delicate brushes on the board was the same pattern Ron had seen on the pendant Malfoy was wearing. Upon closer examination it was not a snake that coiled itself through the stylised rose, but a dragon - tiny legs peeked out from under the curled tail, and small wings were folded closely to the body. 

"It's the Malfoy crest," Malfoy explained when he noticed Ron scrutinising the board, and twirled the amulet between his fingers. 

Ron listened only halfway, too busy examining the pieces, which made for the true beauty of the set. Each of them was individually carved, and so lifelike that they almost seemed to be a collection of real beings miniaturised by a Shrinking Spell. The black pawns formed a row of warlike goblins, all pointed teeth, claws and jagged weaponry. Their white counterparts were eight bearded, gruffly looking dwarfs, clutching short swords, pikes or axes. One, Ron noticed with an amused twitch of his lip, had a harp slung over his shoulder. The black rooks were trolls, leaning on large clubs and glaring over the board, the white ones elephants carrying a tower on their backs. For the knights, the artist had chosen magical animals: two winged horses for the white side, two manticores for the black. Their tiny scorpion tails were flicking belligerently. Both sets of bishops wore heavy armour, the black ones' studded with thorns and daggers, the white with floor-length cloaks and no visor. 

What captivated Ron most of all, however, were the royal pairs. The black king was carved in the form of rather young man, carrying a spear and a wand, light armour peeking out from under a long wizard's cloak. His face was utterly cold, in a way that reminded Ron strangely of Malfoy, or, even more precisely, of his father. His aloof queen brandished a wand, and the folds of her elaborate gown and veil had been executed in intrinsic detail. The white king was a bearded man, leaning with a pensive expression on a beautiful, double-edged sword. The white queen, however, captured Ron's heart immediately. With a long, flowing dress and untamed hair, she had the grace of a fairy princess and an irresistible smile that lightened up her eyes as much as her lips. Easily the liveliest figure on the board, she gave Ron an impish smile and a wink as he stared at her. 

_Wow_! Ron thought in unabashed admiration. This was truly a thing of beauty, something much too precious for Hogwarts' dungeons and the nasty twit who owned it. It called for a museum, or the centre-place of a great hall to unfold its full impact.

"You like it?" There was a distinctly mocking tone in Malfoy's voice.

 _Bastard_! Ron thought hotly. This was just another way of throwing his family's wealth in Ron's face, and the redhead felt fury welling up inside him because it worked. He forced his voice to remain cool.

"Of course I like it. I'd have to be blind not to." He gave the blond a hard look. "That was your cue for a snide remark about me not being able to afford something like this even if I'd sell my soul on top of my family's possessions." 

The same well-known, infuriating smirk again.

"Yes indeed, I couldn't have phrased it much better myself. Shall we begin?"

Zabini picked up two pawns and shuffled them behind his back before holding his closed fists out to Ron. He picked the right and was rewarded with the black figure. For an instant, severe disappointment flooded him. He almost always played black, not wanting to have an additional advantage over a less skilled player, but here the stakes were higher and - most importantly - he _wanted_ to play with the awesome white set. The elfish queen gave him a regretful smile and curtsied to Malfoy as her side arranged itself in their proper positions on the board. Ron's pieces clutched their array of weapons, eager for battle. The black king gave him the tiniest of curt nods.

"How... uncharacteristic," Malfoy drawled and turned the board to reflect the sides appropriately. 

Pansy suddenly rose, her chair clattering backwards loudly in the rather deserted common room. She glared at the boys, but, to Ron's surprise, most venomously at Malfoy.

"I'm _not_ going to watch this!" she hissed angrily, and almost ran from the room.

Malfoy's smirk deepened.

"What about you?" he asked Zabini.

"If it'll help take out your pent-up frustrations off the Quidditch Pitch, then by all means go ahead before we lose more points," the dark-haired Slytherin replied dryly. "And I'll watch, if you don't mind."

"As long as the tale doesn't leave this room, I don't," Malfoy replied pointedly.

The corners of Zabini's mouth twitched slightly.

"Does it ever?" He settled back into his armchair, leaving Ron with the distinct impression that he'd missed something important. Malfoy settled down opposite him and cocked an eyebrow invitingly.

Ron took a deep breath and shoved all doubts and insecurities away to the back of his mind, where they usually rested while he was playing chess, and became pure and un-distracted concentration. Calmly, he returned the nod and waited for the Slytherin's first move.

 

Ron realised after the first few turns that Malfoy was probably the most defensive opponent he'd ever played - he could hold a candle to Percy's Ravenclaw girlfriend Penelope Clearwater. It didn't agree too well with his own style; he preferred to play aggressively, even recklessly at times, and an extremely slow and guarded enemy whittled away at his patience. 

_Not today, though_ , he promised himself forcefully. _I'm not going to take the slightest risk tonight._

Minutes passed in a slow, measured dance of advance, defence and retreat. At last, Ron saw an opening and whispered for his bishop to take the most forward of Malfoy's knights. The armoured bishop's broadsword descended on the hapless Pegasus and cut it almost in half. It gave a small, pained whine and collapsed, then dissolved into a swirl of white sparks. Ron jumped at the unusual display, waiting for the piece to reappear next to the board. It didn't happen.

Worriedly, he glared at Malfoy.

"What happened?" 

The Slytherin smiled coldly. 

"Why, you took one of my pieces, Weasley. You should have been able to gather that bit of information yourself."

"But... it's gone!"

"Of course it is. It won't come back, either. This is a real wizard chess set, not one of the mass-produced harmless versions Dervish & Banges are flooding the market with." He threw Ron an eerie smile. "Our ancestors used to transfigure a handful of their elite wizards into chessmen to settle disputes with a minimum of bloodshed, although the Ministry has outlawed the practice for hundreds of years. Still, among high-ranking Slytherin families, you play a serious game with a real set or you don't play at all. Not that you'd have any real-life experience with rank, of course, but you might have known this if you wouldn't sleep like a log through all of Binns' lessons."

Ron pushed his hand through his fiery hair in exasperation. He was agitated enough to pull out some strands, but resisted, barely. 

"That's hideous!" he exploded. "Destroying something like this," he gestured at the board in outrage, "just to show off? That's _incredibly_ idiotic, even for you!"

"Stop whining!" Malfoy shot back. "It's a war game after all, so it's appropriate that you'll have to make sacrifices." He shot Ron a hate-filled look out of pale grey eyes. "Consider it a lesson for real life, Weasley. After all, your beloved Potter has learned it already when he sacrificed Diggory." 

The words embedded themselves like slivers of ice in Ron's chest. He suddenly felt very, very cold.

"Malfoy," he said quietly, "you are an unspeakably repulsive, horribly fucked-up bastard. You know as well as I that Harry would never-"

"Wouldn't he?" Malfoy picked up one of his pawns and surveyed the board contemplatively. "Perhaps not. Then again, he wouldn't need to. Because there are so many willing to sacrifice themselves so that your Boy Who Lived can move onto the next square." He smiled at Ron, eyes frozen, without the slightest trace of humour. "Like you." 

He put the pawn down and very deliberately took one of Ron's goblins. The hideous little figure fell back and disappeared in a cloud of shimmering grey dust that quickly evaporated. 

"Your move."

Ron shivered as he stared at the board, the two empty squares glaring at him like gaping holes. They echoed the other hole Malfoy's words had ripped into his heart. He knew it wasn't true, knew it had only been pure malice speaking, and yet it hurt, terribly. For a second, he wanted to be six years old again, and run off to hide in a corner. 

Instead, he collected himself as much as possible and met the Slytherin's cold gaze intently.

"Don't do this, Malfoy." His voice was calm and composed enough to surprise himself. "It's not worth it. Let's transfer the game to a normal board. This one is too precious for a school quarrel." 

"It belonged to my grandfather," Malfoy said, eyes strangely out of focus. "Abraxas Malfoy. He died long before I was born. It's the only thing I have that belonged to him." He turned his head to look directly at Ron, with an intensity that made him feel like the focus of the universe. "We _will_ finish this game. Unless you decide to forfeit."

Which, of course, was not an option. Ron's heart plummeted. He surveyed the board, desperately. He couldn't do this... but he had to.

 

The game continued, even more defensive than before, but now the roles were reversed. Malfoy latched onto Ron's hesitation to take any of his pieces, and started to advance. He was a good player, Ron realised. Not inspired or exceptional, no better than Zabini, but too good to be beaten without serious casualties. He couldn't win in the defensive, Ron knew, and yet he tried. His hesitation made two of his pawns and a rook fall to the white queen in quick succession. She flicked her wand at them, and they disappeared in a sparkle of glittering dust. 

An attack formation of Malfoy's queen, bishop and remaining knight started to circle his king, until Ron finally had no other option but to take the white bishop with one of his manticores. Its scorpion tail buried itself deep into the knight's chest, and he writhed helplessly until he exploded into sparks as well. Malfoy just smirked coldly and recklessly advanced with his queen. She seemed to notice Ron's despair and gave him a pitying look. Ron executed a frantic retreat of his forces from the advancing queen, but was acutely aware that he couldn't force her back into Malfoy's half, because his counter-moves weren't seriously contemplating taking her, and Malfoy, damn his black and corroded heart, knew it. He lost another three pawns to her, until his own king, patience obviously exhausted, stabbed at his hand with his minuscule spear and screamed, "Play, damn you!" 

The trickle of blood down his finger, but even more so the only utterance from this up to now utterly quiet set, jerked Ron back into a reality he had unsuccessfully tried to ignore. He shivered again and scrutinised the board, eyes alternating between his cold, dark king and the beautiful, sad white queen that was slowly but irrevocably destroying his side. Shame flooded him. In his eagerness to preserve the white pieces, he had sacrificed his own thoughtlessly. Though less beautiful and ethereal, they still deserved his loyalty, and he had betrayed them. 

Malfoy hesitated for a split second, then put Ron's king in check with his queen, quite consciously placing her into a position where she could be taken both by one of Ron's remaining goblins and his manticore. His eyes held Ron's, emphasising the challenge he had just made on the board. 

_Merlin help me, I can't do this_ , Ron thought. _It's... wrong on so many levels_. He had the strongest urge to hit something or somebody, preferably Malfoy, but for once this wasn't an option. No matter what he did, it would be wrong. If he gave up, it would mean handing Malfoy a hand-written invitation to do something unspeakable to him. And knowing Malfoy, it _would_ be ghastly. But if he played the game out and won, it would be only because he'd allowed Malfoy to manipulate him into something that went against his very nature. He would, by proxy, come very close to concede his argument, and in the process destroy one of the most beautiful things he'd ever laid eyes on. 

In the end, it was almost easy.

"I forfeit."

"Are you quite certain?" There was something akin to predatory hunger in Malfoy's tone, something that made Ron shiver to the soles of his feet. 

"Yes." 

The black king glared at him, then threw down his spear and his crown at the white queen's feet. 

Zabini got up from his seat beside the fire and shook his head. 

"You've got guts, Ronald, but at the same time you're incredibly stupid. The epitome of Gryffindor." He nodded to Malfoy, with a vague note of respect. "Congratulations." 

Then he left.

_~ ~ ~_

For a long moment, they only stared at each other.

"Let's go," Malfoy said finally, and rose from his chair. "I'll walk you out of Slytherin territory. The Bloody Baron isn't fond of intruders."

Ron followed him out into the corridors, forcing his feet not to drag too obviously. Furiously, he told himself not to panic. He had faced a bloody mountain troll, McGonagall's giant chessmen, Aragog's 'children', and Sirius Black when he'd still believed him to be a mass murderer. He would _not_ have hysterics because of Draco Malfoy. And yet, he'd never been in a situation where he hadn't been able to fight back, however little. Oh yes, Malfoy had led him into an effective trap, and like so often, he had only himself to blame. 

_Bleeding idiot!_ he cursed himself. _How could you ever believe one of the Snakes would play fair if they could just as well double-cross you!_

When the Slytherin finally stopped it was in a dim, deserted corridor off the Great Hall. Malfoy turned and his icy eyes ghosted over Ron contemplatively.

"You remember our deal?"

Ron raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. 

"Bugger, Malfoy, as if I'd forget! Why don't you just stop gloating and get whatever you've planned over with."

The other smirked, again twirling his pendant between his fingers. The small dragon was almost dancing in the irregular light.

"Don't worry, I will. But you realise that you brought this on yourself, right? You failed the test. I only had to take a little, calculated risk, but I knew you'd fall. Do you think Dumbledore would have backed down? Mad-Eye Moody? Even famous Potter? In the end, there will only be players and pawns - and you have just decided to opt for minion status." 

"And what about you, Malfoy?" Ron snarled back. It was unwise in the extreme to provoke his enemy further and he was terrified out of his wits, but this had to be said. "What are you, except your father's pawn? And even if you manage to move a couple of squares forward, you'll still be You-Know-Who's. At least I've asked myself if it was worth it and decided it wasn't. Have you, ever?"

The other boy struck as fast as a snake. His fist hit the right side of Ron's face, and the impact threw him back against the roughly-hewn stone wall. He wiped a trickle of blood from his cut lip, and found Malfoy's wand pointed directly at his heart, only a fraction away from his robe. Still slightly dizzy, he wondered if he had provoked the Slytherin enough to really throw an Unforgivable at him. He had managed to crack Malfoy's mask again, and something in the other's rage-filled eyes told him he'd struck a mark. There was a shred of despair lodged beneath his all-consuming fury, and in that split second Ron almost felt pity. He might have got himself into serious trouble now, he might be poor and insignificant, but he would never ever be as trapped as Malfoy was. It wasn't the right moment to point that out, though. It wasn't necessary, either. Ron knew, and Malfoy knew he did. Which only made matters worse.

Instead of cursing him to damnation, Malfoy visibly fought for control, and then swept the wand away from Ron and cast a Silencing Spell on the corridor. When he turned back, his face was composed again, a blank facade. 

"Lean back against the wall and close your eyes." The voice was hard, and very brittle. Ron frowned.

"Why-"

"Because I say so - because you owe me a free shot. And," Malfoy smiled, an extremely ugly smile, "because I'd be in trouble if you fell over and broke your neck when you pass out from the pain."

Ron swallowed hard, icy fingers tapping up and down his spine. He obeyed, shuddering. Whatever the Slytherin would do, it would be both painful and humiliating, that much he knew. Not seeing it coming made matters even worse. 

"Roll up your left robe sleeve." 

He did, feeling the hairs on his arm standing up. He jumped as something cool touched his forearm, until he realised it was Malfoy's fingers, tracing a pattern on his skin. A little, agitated voice started to chirp in the back of his head, warning him about something half forgotten, something Harry had mentioned, almost in passing...

The fingers drew back, and before he could voice his thoughts, he heard Malfoy whispering something that sounded like a spell and the world... exploded. Something cold was pressed against his arm, coldness that erupted into blinding, searing heat, like a white-hot iron pressing against his skin, burning itself deeper and deeper and spreading through the nerves of his body like acid. He collapsed back against the wall, trying to jerk away, but something clamped down on his wrist and his weak struggles couldn't dislocate it. The pain spiralled until his bones felt as brittle as charred logs in a fireplace, and his mind began to give out. Then it receded, just below the unbearable point. 

 

Reality took a long while to register. At least, Ron realised that he was still slumped against the wall, that his eyes were open, although he could not see anything because they were so blurred by tears. That he could move again, well, theoretically. Practically, he hurt too badly to even consider it.

Eventually, he wiped the wetness from his eyes with his un-mutilated arm and looked down at the other. It was marred by an ominous, round mark. The panic that hit him at the blurry sight was worse than anything. Worse than the moment a huge shaggy dog that had transformed into Sirius Black in the Shrieking Shack, worse even than his first glimpse of the giant spiders. He let out a sound that was a mixture between hysterical giggle and horrified scream.

"What the _hell_ have you done to me?" 

If that was his voice, it sounded worse than when Fred and George had cast Impedimenta on the Wizarding Wireless.

Malfoy's voice came back to him, muffled by the ringing in his ears. Weird, he had never heard himself screaming.

"Don't be ridiculous, Weasley. It's _not_ the Dark Mark. Only the Dark Lord could give you that." And then, cheerful and full of suppressed laughter, "Although I'd love to watch you trying to explain it to some ignorant Mudblood Auror during a raid - 'Honestly, sir, it's not what it looks like!'" 

The vague shape that was the blond Slytherin crouched down next to him and dangled his pendant necklace before Ron's eyes.

"It's the Malfoy crest. The same thing we use to brand recalcitrant house elves, to show them whom they belong to." He lowered his head to whisper in Ron's ear. "To show them by whose sufferance they live." 

Ron looked down on the obscene brand on his forearm and bile rose in his throat. To imagine having to live with that... _thing_ on him... Tears of shame welled up, and he forced them back with all the strength he could muster. He would _not_ let himself be humiliated even further. For a second, he desperately wished Malfoy _had_ used the Killing Curse instead. How could he explain _that_... to Harry, or Hermione, or his family? 

Simple. He couldn't. They could never find out.

Malfoy grabbed a handful of Ron's hair and pulled his head back to look into his face. Ron set his lips into a thin, determined line and stared back, eyes blazing defiantly. Malfoy's fingers brushed over the inflamed mark on his arm and the burning agony flared up again. Ron forced himself to keep his face steady, although he could not stop a muscle twitching in his cheek. He would never again show weakness in front of Malfoy.

"You know," the blond told him almost casually as he admired his handiwork, "I have never before hurt someone like this, with my own hands. I think I like it."

"No surprise," Ron ground out after a few seconds, when he was sure that words instead of screams would leave his mouth once he unclenched his teeth again. "We've always known you're twisted. Maybe you can apply to the Death Eaters as apprentice torturer." 

"I'd be very careful with such remarks from now on, Weasley," Malfoy replied and let go of his hair. "Unless you want your little housemates, above all Potter and the Mudblood, to know exactly what happened tonight. To whom you belong now." He smiled darkly and pulled Ron to his feet. 

"As if," Ron shot back and clung to the wall for dear life as the corridor started to sway before his eyes. 

"Are you going to keel over?" Malfoy's cold voice asked behind him.

"No," he replied weakly, overwhelmed for a second by the renewed pain in his arm. "But I think I'm going to be sick."

"Don't you dare! Filch would throw a fit." The mundane reply made Ron snort bitterly. "Can you make it back to Gryffindor tower?"

"Sure." He wasn't in the least, but he wanted to get away from the Slytherin as quickly as possible. 

"Good." Malfoy turned to leave, then stopped again. "Oh, Weasley, I almost forgot. You still owe me an apology."

"Merlin, you never bloody stop, do you? All right, I apologise for calling your blasted father a Death Eater in public even though we both bloody well know he is one!" 

Malfoy glared at him.

"I'll let you get away with that this time because you're halfway delirious. But one more time, and our little secret is out. Do you understand?"

Ron closed his eyes. 

"Yes." 

When he opened them again, the Slytherin had vanished like a ghost.

_~ ~ ~_

Ron soon discovered that his statement of being able to make it back to his dormitory had been sheer arrogance without any bearing on reality. The burn mark ached relentlessly, and he was gripped by alternating hot and cold tremors. He made the few steps into the Great Hall and collapsed on the first chair at hand. Hufflepuff table. How appropriate!

He put his head on the table and let out a desperate moan as the implications of tonight's disaster slowly began to sink in. His mind wandered to Harry, sleeping towards recovery in the Hospital Wing and oblivious to just how badly his useless best friend had fucked up his attempt to avenge him. To Hermione, who was probably still with him, worrying about how Ron had fared, and who could never know the truth. To the infernal brand on his arm, the pain of which showed no sign of abating and probably wouldn't for a long time. He'd have to cover up both, the pain and the mark. There had to be a way. The Death Eaters did it after all, didn't they? Fuck, what glorious company! And how, _how_ would he ever be able to face Malfoy again, knowing what had happened? He had a hold over him now; he'd use it to humiliate him further, and yet was the last person who should ever be able to blackmail him. What if he tried to get to Harry through him? What if he _told_ Harry? What if he tried to lure Harry into a trap with his knowledge? What if Ron would just drag himself up to the top of the Astronomy Tower and throw himself over the balustrade? It would solve all his problems at once...

Ron cursed himself quietly for allowing his mind to get caught up in so destructive a circle, but he was too hurt and too desperate to shove the thoughts away. He also was too preoccupied to notice the soft steps behind him.

"Sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night, Mr Weasley?" 

Ron jumped so hard he almost fell off the chair. Filch? Turning his head, he recognised a black-robed silhouette with a sharp, hook-nosed profile. Not Filch. Snape.

"Damn!" he groaned, and repeated the word, with emphasis, in his mind when he noticed he'd spoken aloud.

"And twenty points from Gryffindor for cursing in front of a teacher. I advise you to return to your dormitory immediately, before you'll lose your house even more points. We'll discuss your detention for this nightly stroll tomorrow after Potions class." Snape's eyes glittered in vicious delight.

Ron stumbled to his feet in panic and nearly fell over as the pain began to flare up again. He bit his lip to stifle a whimper.

"Are you drunk, Weasley?" Snape took a step closer and reached out to steady him. Ron shrank back and jerked his arm away. 

The greasy-haired Potions Master took in his pale, sweaty and contorted face and murmured, half to himself, "Obviously not. Come with me."

"Ah, I'm all right, Professor," Ron mumbled anxiously. "I was just on my way back to Gryffindor tower..."

"If you'd rather explain yourself to Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall, Weasley, I can arrange it." 

"No, I... all right, then." Ron felt like an insect under Snape's piercing glare as he nodded his assent. 

He stumbled after the Potions Master, who thankfully walked at quite a leisurely pace that allowed him to keep up. 

Snape's office was located in the Slytherin dungeons, but thank Merlin not too far away from the Great Hall. Snape unlocked the door with his wand and waved Ron inside, who was glad to collapse on a chair in front of the professor's desk. 

Snape gave him a sharp look.

"What happened?"

Ron glanced down at the desk. 

"Nothing, professor. I couldn't sleep and, um, went for a walk. Because of... a headache."

Snape snorted derisively, then started to rummage through a shelf and dug out a vial of potion. With a flick of his wand he conjured a mug of steaming chocolate, emptied the contents of the vial into it and levitated it over to Ron. 

"Drink." His mouth twisted at Ron's suspicious look. "It's a pain-numbing potion for the 'nothing' you're suffering from. And ten points from Gryffindor for lying to a teacher. You could at least have tried 'I fell down the stairs'." 

Defeated, Ron took a sip of the chocolate. It had a bitter aftertaste from the potion, but soothed both his nerves and the pain in his forearm. When he had calmed down a bit, Snape repeated, "What happened?"

"It's..." Ron stumbled over the words and shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, I... I can't talk about it."

"Weasley, are you mistaking me for stupid? I heard you and Mr Malfoy in the Great Hall this evening. Did he... attack you?" 

There was anger in Snape's voice, though Ron couldn't tell whether it was because he suspected his favourite student of a misdeed, or because Ron might get Malfoy into trouble.

"No, sir," he replied carefully. "We played. I lost."

"He cheated?" Snape's voice remained completely bland, and Ron very carefully modulated his to echo the tone.

"I don't think so. He played fair." As much as he hated the sadistic bastard, Ron had to admit that much. Malfoy hadn't _broken_ the rules so much as... adjusted them. He added, carefully, "Like a Slytherin." Snape gave him another sharp look, but seemed to comprehend the meaning behind the words.

"Good," he replied. Ron couldn't suppress a bitter snort. "I can appreciate a successful scheme even if I don't necessarily approve of the consequences," Snape said harshly. He paused for a moment, fingers tapping on the desk in an imaginary rhythm. 

"I knew Mr Malfoy's father at school, Weasley, and this kind of... game is by no means alien to me. Neither as a player nor as a victim. You play, you deal with the consequences, you learn from them, you avenge yourself. Then you move on. Of course," he wrinkled his nose in distaste, "this is a talk I only _very_ rarely have to have with _extremely_ slow Slytherin first years. Students from other houses seem to be more... emotionally fragile in this respect." 

"I'm not fragile," Ron blurted out before he could stop himself. The Potions Master eyed him speculatively.

"I take it that you're not contemplating giving in to any suicidal impulses tonight, then?"

Ron coughed violently, wondering whether the professor was a mind-reader on top of being a sardonic git. But, surprisingly enough, the thought did not hold any appeal any more. _It must be the chocolate_ , Ron mused. _It sure as hell can't be the company._

"No, sir," he answered with tentative honesty.

"Good. Because it would reflect very badly on my house if a Slytherin were to be implicated in your untimely demise. And take five more points from Gryffindor for blatantly contradicting a professor." Snape threw him another vial. "That is more of the potion. Taken undiluted, it will make you sleep deeply as well. And Weasley," he added as Ron was heading for the door.

"Sir?"

"Since you play chess, you'll know that sometimes, the best way of dealing with a hostile piece that is cornering you badly is to remove the threat. Even if it means losing a piece that is important to you - like your pride for instance. That way, you may have lost a battle, but not the war."

Ron looked down at his shoes and nodded slowly. In his roundabout way, he understood, Snape was advising him not to hide tonight's events from his friends. And maybe - Ron shuddered inwardly at the thought - he had a point. Harry would back him up against Malfoy. Hermione would help him find a spell against the mark. They would forgive him, and hold him, and perhaps even understand. They were his best friends, after all. Yes, maybe matters really were not as bleak as they could be.

"I'll think about it." He opened the door and paused before adding, very quietly. "Thank you."

_~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~_

**Author's Note:**

> Written in November 2002 (with some very slight edits due to canon before reposting here)


End file.
